


gun, bullet. body, bullet.

by petalsandstars



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Arson, Blood, Blood and Violence, Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Shooting Guns, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalsandstars/pseuds/petalsandstars
Summary: Hacked up corpses of murdered men, crown of bones, twenty years old.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Yamaguchi Tadashi
Kudos: 16





	gun, bullet. body, bullet.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hewwo annyeong. no thoughts no plots. [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2QYFWkz1QwMhKwlZy4qx4X?si=1WE6_AcSSDSLzXT2vvuejQ)

_Hacked up corpses of murdered men, crown of bones, twenty years old._

The living room is a yawning cavern of darkness, only occasionally broken by the afternoon light that slices through the blinds, rustling from the wind filtering through the tattered screen door of their so-called safe house. There they sat, back against each other as splashes of gold and crimson illuminated them. Making them look as if there are part of a majestic painting - a focal point of the said painting, shades of warm colors from messy brushstrokes, globs of paint slapped onto the canvas, smattering of tones, colors and values. Stench of kerosene is overbearing, yet they feel so alive breathing it in.

Firewood cackling under the heat of flicking fire. Burning evidence. Burning memories. Burning the epiphany of the adrenaline pumping as they watch as the men’s deafening scream slowly, yet painful quiet down, buried down by the sounds of leaves rustling against the harsh wind. A sickening smug smile plastering their face as they succumb into the cataclysmic lust of manipulating death.

A heartbeat, two;

“One of these days, our luck will run out and it will be us each in our designated cell,” Yamaguchi starts to break the thick silence, fingers fidgeting around as he picks through the end of his nail, trying to find a sense of living, trying come back to the real state of mind. His eyes quiver, _from the fear or from the high_ , nobody could ever decipher. He could hear his heart pumping through his ears, his eyes losing their focus and his clammy hands hoisting the material of the washed-down jeans he is wearing.

He hears as the other let out a breathy chuckle, “That is if we ever get caught. But, that sounds fun, yeah? Us against the world?” 

A heartbeat of silence. Two. 

The metal in his hand flickers as the light reflects on it, so bright that it is almost blinding. He held the knife, twisting it in the daylight as if it could slice up the sun-rays, the expression exaggerated by the dark shadows around his eyes. A dark vivid darkness within the hollow irises as he continues his ministrations along the other’s face, and the tinkling laugh that never fails to ring through the other’s mind, echoing off the walls and into the emptiness.

“Listen here, Tadashi. We’ve gotten away with this shit that we do here, for nine times. Well, just seven for you, though, if you count the kills as some kind of individual task.”

\-- 

And so, that took Yamaguchi back to when he first met _him_. 

Cigarette hanging lowly between his lips, hair tousled with the wind, hand skillfully playing with the bright neon lighter. As the metallic wheel on the lighter is pushed down, rubbing against the ferrocerium, producing a scorching spark. As the valve opens, from which the butane is released, igniting the plume of gas, a shrieking ray of melting gas purges out of the flame’s capturing heat; ovate, tranquil flame. The glowing embers leaped and twirled in a fiery dance, twinkling like stars in the hot swirling air before cascading to earth like a gleeful fire fiends. When asked about why he likes to do that, his answer is simple;

Fire is a beautiful weapon. The warmth along with the welcoming feel it gives but as you slowly approach it snarls and bite. Playful and gentle at first, as the fire flickered, flared, leapt, spat, and then the sparks grew big, plumes of black grey smoke, wounding yourself around like a great hungry serpent, devouring everything in its path. _Inferno_.

\--

Hands on his hips, catching his breath as he throws his bag on the floor, landing with a heavy thump. He glances over to the other male, as he plays with the house keys between his pale fingers.

“Why are we so far out here? I mean, this is not even the suburbs. This is basically the very end,” Yamaguchi utters out, voice thick with exhaustion and it shows through the dark circle under his eyes. His stand staggers a little and the wave of exhaustion washes over him. 

“Well,” the other male starts off, “No feds. No chances of getting caught.” Words flowing out from his mouth like a plague, but he seems nonchalant as a grin splits his face grotesquely, mangled by the fading light of the evening scene.

\--

What Yamaguchi never realizes is that he is a marionette doll and the other male is the puppeteer, controlling his moves - arms, legs, and head with sticks and wires. But, he didn’t notice it. 

_Gun, bullet._

Yamaguchi is the gun, and he is the puppeteer with his hand over the trigger.

“Pull the trigger, Tadashi.” His voice is calm. Piercing through the thick tension in the air. “We’ve gone through this. Pull the fucking trigger. Now.”

His hands tremble. His skin sweat. Breathless, almost. 

A heartbeat. Two.

Tadashi let out a puff of heavy breath. Trigger is pulled. 

_Body, bullet._

The loud bang echoes through the forest. Towering canopy, the birds that were previously singing sweetly now screaming in terror. The sun slapping through the cracks, lighting up the dirt path ahead of them, dried leaves crunch beneath their bare feet. Tadashi trudges on, trying to take in the fragrance of minty grass and the damp earth. 

_But how could he possibly do that._

Dead leaves littering the sun-kissed dirt, a cold front of the horizon. A murder of crows flies overheard. It’s almost like a movie set type of atmosphere, a blockbuster horror film for the records.

As the life fluid drained out of the man in it’s garish red, his skin took on the pallor of a corpse; _what he will turn into in a few minutes_. The muted sunlight filtering in through the canopy of greens. The other male’s gaze pans to the slow dragging of a comatose body, blood siphoned out and pulse captured for the purposes of nothing more than a sick pleasure. He grins, ominous, devilish. _He loves it when he plays God._

  
The air reeks of iron, red gushes of blood oozing from the half-dead body. A heavy stench of kerosene as the other male splashes it all over the bloodied body. The friction of the phosphorus with the potassium chlorate in the match head igniting a small, gentle fire. He flicks the match to the writhing body. _Inferno_. 

  
He watches as the body arches and jerks in an inhuman form. He watches as the skin melts into flesh, melts into bones, altogether mangles and useless. He watches as it is left with nothing but a charred flesh and mauled bone. 

Tadashi fell to his hands and knees, and vomited. His stomach heaving until nothing was left in his guts but the fear that had overcome him. 

Slow, meticulous steps approach him.

“We need to be careful with these sorts of things, you see. We’ll never know when we might get caught. Hence, the claustrophobic seclusion of the woods. Hence, the solitude,” He chucks the matchbox into the flame, “But, don’t you find it thrilling? The risk of being caught? It’s all terribly addictive, you see. A bit of a problem, a bit of a warning sign.” There are lingering traces of sort of the high that he got from the whole ordeal. Almost bloodcurdling. 

\--

_It is addictive._

Yamaguchi realizes that it is a twisted fever, lurching up the throat and slamming into the skull in its ecstasy. Agitation. Restlessness. Nuclear, drawn-out anticipation.

The soft thudding of the victim’s head as it skids against the ground becomes a commonplace to him. _To them_. 

The sight of the flesh splitting, the mild crimson liquid seeping away from the wound, the thick beads crawling as brisk as it travels etching red streaks that crisp with advancing time until pellucid water cleanses it all away. The scent of blood. The scent of flesh burning, charred. It is almost like a vehicle to feed the addiction. 

The scene of his first murder followed him, blurred into the long flight through the wilderness, broken only by stretches of tense, restless night. But now, he ignores all the flashing red lights, ignores all the sirens blaring through his thick skull. After all, what’s one more body? It is simply another fertilizer stuffed into a hollow earth, more blood diffusing through the water. 

Just like how the other male had once told Tadashi, prior to all the menacing massacre, “If you’re in the right mindset, you can get used to anything with enough time.” 

\--

And just like what I’ve told you guys, Yamaguchi is a marionette doll. 

The two of them are walking around the woods and they reach a chokepoint with the river on the left and then maneuver into a single file to begin to creep through the restricted pass. 

“Why do you trust me so much, Tadashi?”

A question that halted their pace. Eerily quiet. Leaves rustling. Wind ruffling their hair.

Yamaguchi’s eyebrows raise. “What do you mean?”

What the older male meant was, how could Yamaguchi be so foolish to trust him, knowing how dangerous he is, knowing how reckless and heartless he is, knowing that _he kills, for fun_. It had always been like that for him. The lust to kill. The lust to play God. The lust to watch as the victim cry and writhe in pain, the shout of agony, the pleas to be spared life. He likes it. _He loves it_. It started out as a wicked, fucked up hobby and then he gets Yamaguchi to join the wicked hobby. And it turns out to be their _thing_. But nobody knew about his long-term plan.

Wicked, but well-planned. 

“Shoyo,” Tadashi calls out. “Tell me what you meant by that.”

A heart chuckle slips from his mouth. “We are almost like two sides of the same rusted coin. Wretched and rotten and unsalvageable wrecks. But, little boy, I was the one who molded you like so.”

One step.

“I was the one who introduced you to the joy and the pleasure of playing God.”

Two steps.

“You know who I am. You know my secrets. You know practically everything, by now.”

Three steps.

“But you still tail along. Doing everything as I told you to. Aren’t you afraid of me?”

And he halts. 

“I could kill you, you know that, right?” Hinata says, an abrupt statement. His hollow irises are dark, but if you look closely enough you see a spark of fire, igniting brighter and bigger and monstrous by each ticking seconds. _Murderous. Red. Flame. Red. Flame._

“Shoyo,” Tadashi’s voice quivers in fear, “Wait. Calm down. This is not how it is supposed to be,” he pleas. Pathetic. 

“This is exactly how I planned it out, little boy,” his gaze is almost insidious, “This is exactly it. It is simply how everything plays out. And, after all, we’re all mad here.”

So, what do you have then? A gun. A man. A life. A boy playing God. A boy manipulating death. A boy enjoying the terror in the other’s eyes. 

It is an infectious addiction, a disease that is nowhere near as easy to kill off as a mere human.

There is no cure. No one makes it out. 

The birds flee in terror of the loud. The bullet spat out of his hand, red in the darkness. It hit Yamguchi in the chest, propelling him backward in an awkward cartwheel. He fell. His hands weakly grazing on the river.

Hinata walks up, closing in the distance, chucking the gun into the back pocket of his dark blue jeans. “I am the only one in this town who will know you, all the way down to the grave,” he grins; wicked, “or, down to the river, either way you get what I’m saying yeah”

Yamaguchi’s eyes looking through Hinata, mouth parted in silence. This secret will be taken to the grave, well basically the river but you get what I mean and Hinata made sure of that. He watches as Yamaguchi slips off to death, watching thoroughly as his chest stops moving up and down, watching as the red crimson blood seeps through the grass and leaks into the river. He pushes the dead body into the river and watches as it flows with the current. Further, and further, and further, and finally out of sight. 

_At least only the river bears the burden of carrying the body away, now._


End file.
